SEPTEMBER 2020 TEST DRIVE MEME

[sodder]

SEPTEMBER 2020 TEST DRIVE MEME

Welcome to September's Test Drive Meme! This month's Test Drive's theme is: CHILDREN/YOUNG ADULT HORROR.

All Test Drive Memes contain at least one clue to the Deerington's upcoming in-game events for the month! Keep your eyes peeled! But...not literally.

Characters may die during TDMs, but you do not need to count it towards a game-canonical death unless you want to. Consider it a freebie. All TDMs can be considered game canon as TDMs introduce minor aspects about the world of Deerington that can be revisited by characters later on in the game. You may also use TDMs for your application writing sample as well as AC.

CW: Evil dollhouses, potential body horror (turning into a doll), heights, pranks with the potential to cause harm, some stalking vibes
Don't forget to tag content whenever necessary. Have fun!

Prompt One
Prompt Two
Character Arrival
Master Navigation

THE EVIL DOLLHOUSE

When you wake up, you find you're not in your own bed, your own room, or even your own house. The room is well decorated, almost Victorian in fashion. The bed is pretty uncomfortable and you're not even sure the mattress is a real mattress. The chairs look like they might be made of plastic and the doors are flimsy. But it might not be what catches your eye, especially if you look out the window.

Through the clear panes (which also seem to be plastic), you will notice you do not see the town of Deerington, or even the outdoors at all. You see a living room that feels larger than life. There aren't any people in it, but as you look around at the fake looking furnishings and the strange view, you might be hit with a realization: you're inside a dollhouse.

The dollhouse has three floors for those who explore; the second floor you woke up on has two bedrooms and a fake little bathroom, all decorated in the same Victorian dollhouse style as the room you originally found yourself in. The bottom floor has a cute little kitchen with small porcelain dolls sitting around the table, a living room with all the basic furniture one would expect to find (in fact, it looks a great deal like the living room outside the windows), and an office filled with books that can't actually be pulled out of the shelves. On the very top floor is an attic. It's dusty and filled with broken toy beds and chairs, a few shattered doll pieces, and on the far wall you'll see another bookshelf. All seems... fairly standard, really, if you're used to seeing dollhouses.

But what there doesn't appear to be is an exit.

While searching, you may run into another Sleeper. A friend or a stranger, it's clear you're both stuck here together. And the longer the time ticks by, the more concerning things get. You might not notice at first, but anyone inside the dollhouse starts slowly... changing. It seems to go at a different pace for everyone, but the results are always the same. Your skin will start to become porcelain, your cheeks more rosy, your clothes made of cheaper cloth material, your joints become stiffer, and your eyes will start to become more and more glass like. If you don't get out of the dollhouse soon, it's clear that you may become the next doll at the kitchen table.

Searching the house again may feel fruitless, but keen observers may find light scratches on the floor in front of the bookshelf in the attic. Maybe they were like that because of someone moving things around or maybe there's a reason. If you decide to eventually pull the bookshelf aside, there will be a large door in the wall. It may seem strange, given that the wall only leads to the outside, but it's the only door to the outside that actually opens. You expect it to open up into the living room, but instead you'll see the grass of the park below. Far below. It's likely you could get hurt jumping, especially if you've started to turn to porcelain, but what other choice do you have?

Once characters take the plunge, they will find that they land rather softly in the grass, despite how high the jump may have seemed. As soon as you are out of the dollhouse, your body will have returned to complete normal.

And the house with the dollhouse in the living room will be nowhere in sight.

THOSE PESKY KIDS

You start off thinking maybe you're just forgetful and moved minor pieces around in your house without paying attention. You might think you're just seeing strange things out of the corner of your eye, because why wouldn't you? It's Deerington. Things are always strange. But each day, there's something weirder going on. Small objects might turn into entire rooms being rearranged, strange sightings out of the corner of your eye might turn into you swearing you saw a lake monster running through the street, and you swear you can hear the rattling of chains or the sounds of someone telling you to leave echoing in your house at night or following you down the street.

A haunting seems plausible. It wouldn't be the first time in Deerington. But no amount of herbs burned, or exorcisms performed, or chants and spell cast will make these things go away. In fact, they seem to just becoming more and more frequent, and more and more intense. Eventually, the strange creatures you see running around may start to try and attack you. They may start to try and kill you. But they always run off before you can attack back or show yourself to be stronger than them. It's probably the first time the monsters have ever been so easily scared.

Anyone who looks into it further may start to find weird clues lying around after a monster has been chased off. Footprints that don't look quite monster-like, tapes or records that when played will make strange rattling sounds like the chains you've been hearing, a piece of rubber that looks a lot like the monsters skin... Huh. The more you follow the clues, the more they'll lead you towards the answer to your dilemmas; these aren't hauntings.

They're pranks.

People can work together to catch a monster or ghost (or killing it, if you decide to); catching them will lead to them getting quite flustered and angry, struggling to get away. Pull off the mask or the sheet and underneath you'll find... a very disgruntled townsperson. Maybe your business was taking too much money away from theirs and they were hoping you'd close down with enough scares, maybe you talked back to them one time and they were looking for revenge, maybe you ruined their house or garden when you were fighting the things in Deerington that actually try to kill you, or maybe they were just having some "harmless" fun; they all have a different excuse, but they're clearly angry about getting caught.

They woulda gotten away with it if it weren't for you pesky Sleepers, after all.

Character Arrival

You can read how all characters arrive in Deerington here.

There is not a collective "all these characters showed up at the exact same moment" occurrence in Deerington. Since characters fall asleep, die, or pass out at various times throughout all their worlds, it wouldn't make too much sense if they arrived in game all at the exact same time. There should be some discrepancy between character arrival, whether by a couple minutes, hours, or even days up to a week.

The players are entirely in control of how/when they want to play their characters arriving in Deerington. For TDMs, you can play it like your character has just arrived and that can be maintained as your game canon, or you can wait until game events for that moment. Or you don't need to acknowledge it at all. The flexibility for character allows a bit more of an organic feel to the character arrival situation, so please play it to whatever feels right for you.

If you are interested in having an "arrival" introduction for one of your TDM prompts, you are more than welcome to explore that option.

Comments

Ozpin | RWBY | OTA

[clocktowers]

(a) arrival.

From the moment he awakens in bed, Oz is struck by how quiet it is, to be alone again. There is no background clamor of another’s thoughts and impulses, no disorientation of a second self, no high spiking anxiety above the baseline that is him.

When he raises his hands to inspect them, he finds long, slim, pale fingers. Raises a hand to comb fingers through his hair, and finds it intimately familiar.

He is... himself, such as he is. This self. Ozpin.

He spends a long moment like that, wondering how.

But he isn’t likely to find out by sitting here. Oz retrieves his glasses from the nightstand, his coat from the back of a chair, and— does not find his cane. It is nowhere in the unfamiliar bedroom, nor in the kitchen with the jar of berries and the note. He does read the note. He even, perhaps, believes it.

Then he goes out, looking for answers.

So: you may encounter all 6’6” of skinny, professorial-looking man, walking the streets of Deerington with the cautious and overly-attentive look of a newbie. If you look inhuman, or do anything particularly magical out in the open, he stops to watch— too breathless with surprise to be appropriately subtle.

(b) arrival, Quiet Place monsters.

Oz is unaware that he came in during a... fairly eventful point in Deerington’s history. But he quickly becomes aware that there are monsters here. The things do not look like Grimm, exactly, and that is more disorienting to him than any of it.

So: he’s been backed into a corner by two prowling Quiet Place monsters, and here he stands, frustratingly unarmed. He does not want to resort to drastic measures, not so immediately and so in the open— but unless he can find something to fight with, it’s looking likely.

(c) arrival, Sirenheads.

The man— what’s his name? He isn't sure, can’t remember, there are so many— staggers down the street, disoriented. He is getting away from the thing that pried into his mind and pulled all the threads loose, let all his names and lives and memories spill out. He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know who he is.

There is a shock of red blood dripping from his nose, and he’s aware of it because his fingertips came away frighteningly scarlet when he touched his lips. It shouldn’t— his Aura— does he have an Aura? He has magic, doesn’t he? He had magic. The voice in his head had magic. He might be the voice in his head. He...

There is a very confused wizard on the streets of Deerington, and he might need your help.

(d) arrival, cryptids and darkness.

It’s dusk, about to strike the hour when smothering darkness descends on the streets of Deerington. The Mothman is in town, perched upon a streetlamp, its wings fluttering as it inspects the light.

The concept of a friendly or harmless monster is not one that Ozpin has ever encountered. That’s why he’s watching warily, holding the first thing he could take up as an improvised weapon... which is a tree branch. He’s staring down the Mothman, holding a stick like a sword.

Please, someone, intervene.

(e) dollhouse.

Oz stands at the foot of the stairs, inspecting his porcelain fingertips. When he hears the footsteps of another, he speaks without looking up:

"Have you seen anything like this before?"

It is horrifying and fascinating. This is a degree of magic he hasn't seen in millenia. This is something new.

(f) other.

[ Hit me up at ochrona! And feel free to tag with log formatting or brackets. ]

Dollhouse

[threelayers]

Really, Oz? Really?

There's a girl standing in the doorway of the dollhouse room just kind of glaring at him with a look of 'is this really the time' plastered all over her face. Unbeknownst to him, he hadn't disappeared so long ago that she was even aware of the disappearance, so she was assuming he remembered that they'd met.

Tapping one foot in irritation, she raised an eyebrow and shook her head. No, she hadn't seen it before. Oh look, his hand was turning into a mannequin's. Great, which meant hers would be soon too. That was fascinating. Maybe they should figure out how to get out of here before marveling at the wonder of the magic?

Not easy to convey that impatience with a face but she was trying.

[clocktowers]

The silence, and that impatient foot tap, certainly made him look up from whatever was becoming of his hands. The moment his gaze settled on Neo, his expression shifted minutely: his eyes narrowed and his posture drew straighter, assessing.

He remembered. Everything had been so very distant, from the place he'd shut himself away inside Oscar's head, but adrenaline had a way of dragging him further forward than he would like. He'd been aware of the fight, to a degree.

He'd been aware of losing the Relic. He regretted that he'd not managed to rouse himself sooner, to prevent it.

"Ah."

She did not seem to have it now, or at least, he could not see it. And disconcerting though it was, he was aware that, for their purposes here, the matter irrelevant. This was a dream. Of course, coming to terms with what that meant— that the war had been halted for those trapped here, however briefly— was something altogether new.

"Miss Neopolitan, I believe."

His tone was mild, but his attention on her was sharp.

"I don't imagine you know the way out from here?"

[threelayers]

There was recognition in those eyes. So, her reputation preceded her in some way. The exact relationship of Ozpin and Oscar wasn't entirely clear to her, so he had her at a slight disadvantage. She knew 'of' him rather than knowing him personally. Why should it have been different, given how well known her employer was? Roman hadn't been famous, but he'd been a thorn in Beacon's side before the headmaster died.

A quick nod and a small smirk were followed by a little two fingered salute. He had her there. Afterwards, however, she glanced over her shoulder and back to him with a shake of her head. Taking one hand, she pointed at him, then her, and then a simple, circular motion with an eyebrow raised. Search together?

Assuming he could trust her on that one, heh!

D

[justoscar]

"Don't look at him!"

Oscar called from behind, catching sight of the looming stranger under a lamp, brandishing a... stick before the ominous figure of the Mothman perched upon the street lamp. The encroaching darkness arriving so suddenly in the evenings had taken Oscar by surprise-- but, fortunately, he was prepared. A month of investigating (and befriending) the strange creatures had taught him as much about them, and the Mothmen...

Uncertain of what to do but unwilling to put a new Dreamer at risk, Oscar abruptly switched off his small flashlight and, spying a metal trash can on the edge of the street awaiting pick up the next morning, he flung the tool at the bin with as much force as his skinny arms could muster.

The mothmen didn't like loud noises, or so the rumors went. Setting his jaw in his nervousness, he hoped that the raucous clatter of metal upon metal, which knocked off the unsecured let and set it crashing into the street with an unceremonious bang would be enough to scare the cryptid away.

Something in the back of his mind wriggled with a certain familiarity, somehow, but he could deal with that later. He couldn't do much--

Hopefully, this was enough.

Sorry, Oz. There's a tiny farm hand walking a second hand bike down the street with a small drove of Jackalopes following him. The antlered hares didn't budge. They merely stared at the happenings before them, dark eyes watchful for any danger that would drive them to scatter.

[clocktowers]

Well.

This he didn't expect.

He recognizes the voice at once, and for a long moment does not realize it comes from behind him rather than within. Before he can properly question it, a clanging clatter rings out across the darkened street. The thing on the street lamp startles into the air, flapping clumsily, plainly disoriented and afraid. Fascinating.

As the Mothman takes off and away, Oz turns to see...

Well, himself, in a sense. His host. Oscar Pine. Trailed by a small army of... rabbits with antlers. Was this his Semblance?

It is immensely strange to be seeing the boy from this angle, to not be feeling secondhand every step he takes and every thought he thinks. Already the distance is disorienting. So Oz stands straight, branch planted beneath his folded hands as though it's the cane he is currently missing, and for a moment the silence simply hangs like that. Oz tries to find an appropriate way to greet the boy, and entirely fails. He says, simply, in that familiar voice:

"Oscar."

[justoscar]

It was the sound of a voice that he had only ever heard inside his head that drew his recognition, and had Oscar stopping in his tracks. Only then did he recognize the man's face, from the blur of images Jinn had shown them all on that fateful day in the wilderness-- and, for once, Oscar felt...

Small.

Scuffing the toe of his shoe against the concrete, Oscar first glanced back at the Jackalopes that had walked beside him as if seeking strength from their presence. They were far from a Semblance, but the result of several weeks of persistence and showing them his open hearted personality. Only after realizing they had nothing more to offer than their silent presence did Oscar sigh and meet Oz's gaze.

...What was he supposed to call Oz, anyway?

"Hi."

He uttered, inwardly cringing at the sheer awkwardness of his reply. No dramatic words or show of emotion were displayed-- no anger, no sorrow, no relief...

Just 'Hi.'

Biting his lip nervously, he continued:

"Um, we're going to have a lot to talk about... I think. There's a place with pretty good cocoa not far... and we can call Yang for a pick up if it gets too dark."

arrival; around town

[poorlydied]

[ Gerry's ties to Beholding have only grown more tenuous since waking up in Deerington. He's not sure if that's because he's now properly dead, or because he's farther from the Eye's influence, but either way, the effect is the same: his ability to tell when someone's been Marked is wildly inconsistent and vague, even at the best of times.

He's on his way to work when he passes by Ozpin on the street, passively looking around and sipping a to-go cup of coffee. As soon as he gets within about three feet of Ozpin, however, he's hit with an absolute tidal wave of Knowledge, and nearly spits out his drink. This man is Marked as hell.

Gerry Keay is not in the business of picking up strays. But there's something deeply wrong about this person -- something concealed, something unreal, something multiple. Gerry isn't sure what exactly has claimed this stranger, but he does know the stranger is in danger. Gerry doubles back, and grabs the back of the man's jacket. His gaze is intense, focused: as if the two eyes in his head and the eyes tattooed on his hands are looking at this very strange stranger.

With all the urgency of someone about to warn someone else that they're walking into a burning building: ]

Stop. You're Marked.

[clocktowers]

[ He doesn't take much notice of the young man, regardless of the many tattoos. Gerry's style actually feels closer to what he'd expect back home— distinctive, heavy and black. Gerry looks normal, to him, more than any of the people in muted or mismatched tones. Anyway, he is more preoccupied with the strangeness of the place, which doesn't quite suit anywhere he's been before. And Oz has been everywhere, at some point or another.

So he does not expect the sudden, sharp footsteps, the hand on his coat. Oz is drawn up short, and he turns, half-braced for an attack.

What he finds instead is... fear? Concern? He glances down at his own hands, as though expecting to find some change evident. There is nothing.

Cautiously: ]

Marked by what?

[poorlydied]

[ That's a sensible question, and Gerry will do his best to provide a sensible answer: ]

Fear.

[ Okay, that's a little cryptic, but in his defense, Gerry is still trying to figure out exactly which fears have gotten this man. Gerry's pretty sure there's more than one -- there's something wrong about this person as a person. That could be the Stranger's work, or the Spiral's, or maybe both. There's something else, too: something repeated, and that feels almost familiar.

Gerry steps in front of Ozpin and leans close, as if he's trying to read something very small printed on the other man's forehead. This is probably awkward. Gerry does not care. ]

I don't know which one, still trying to figure that out, but you better be really careful.

[ time to test a theory: ]

Who -- [ no, that's the wrong question, try again: ] -- how many are you?

Arrival Sirenheads

[clickclickbloom]

Ruby hadn't been as active this month when it came to going out and protecting people from the monsters. She was only just starting to sleep full nights after the effects of the deathflu and the shakes had mostly gone. So it was time to get out and active a bit more.

...Except she hadn't expected to run into a new familiar face when she did. Her silver eyes go wide when she sees Ozpin wandering through the streets, blood dripping from his ears, nose and mouth. She freezes for just an instant. The last time they had spoke they left off on shaky terms and she had been forced to pick up the pieces of his mission. It hadn't been an easy burden to bear.

But a Huntress didn't leave someone in need and she wasn't about to start now. She approaches cautiously and offers him an arm.

"Professor Ozpin? Here lean on me for a bit." She keeps her tone carefully neutral. She wasn't sure what time he had arrived from if he was in that body. She for the longest time had been the furthest behind in terms when they arrived. If he was in that body, did he even know what had happened between them?

[clocktowers]

She calls a name, and— that is one of his names, isn’t it? Ozpin. He can't recall whether that's the current one. He can't recall which life he knows her from.

"Thank you."

It comes soft and tired, but he accepts the offered arm to steady himself as they walk. She is terribly small, but this seems only right; she is young and helpful, and he is an old man.

Or— is he not? He was sure of it. He needs his cane just to get around, these days. Or— does he not? He doesn't seem to have it now. This body must be a new one; that must be why he can't remember who he's supposed to be. It all seems to run together.

He rubs at his eyes with his fingertips, breathes a sigh. When Oz opens his eyes again to look at his rescuer properly, he sees silver looking back at him, and the spark of recognition shows in his face.

"Ah." I know you, he almost says. Instead he says, "You have silver eyes."

She must be a warrior, then. A helpful rescuer indeed.

[clickclickbloom]

"You're welcome. Just... doing my job." There's a hint mix of worry and uncertainty in her tone, but she tried to push that aside. She didn't know how to feel about Ozpin being here or even if she should help after what he had done. In the end he was still someone who needed help right now and she wasn't about to abandon him because of the hurt she felt.

They start to walk and she keeps a wary eye on him at first but that shifts to surprise and more than a little worry when recognizes her eyes. Was he from before they met?

"Uuuuh... Yeah-Had them all my life. My mom did too."

a!

[thefaulty]

[ It was not always that Arid took issue with being stared at. If anything, she had become rather accustomed to it during her first few months in Deerington. As she now knows, many Sleepers originate in systems that did not contain AI or even combat suits like hers and thus, she had often found herself the subject of more than one ignorant stare. It had been easy enough to ignore—back then.

More recently, she has developed an aversion to such focused attention. At first, she does not react when she notices the man gaping at her. Standing guard outside the Deerington Public House where she is employed as a bouncer, Arid might easily be mistaken for a statue. Not prone to the natural, inadvertent movements of a human when idle, she stands in perfect stillness. The illusion is only broken when, after the tall human has spent several moments staring, her helmet turns sharply towards him. ]

Your scrutiny is not welcome. State your business, or leave.

poor arid is triggered by skinny nerds in green

[clocktowers]

[ Ah. An android, then. This is not overly disconcerting to him; he's becoming accustomed to James's ever-more-elaborate parade of killing machines. He knows that no good will come of disturbing the thing. He wonders who it belongs to, and for what purpose.

Politely: ]

My apologies. I'm merely attempting to familiarize myself with the town. It seems I'm rather new here.

this trigger sux and she hates u jon

[thefaulty]

[ Arid regards the human coolly, absorbing his apology in silence. His previous attention aside, he does not seem at all shocked at being addressed by her. Perhaps he is not from such a technologically backward place as many of the other Sleepers.

It is not necessarily a point in his favor. ]

You are in Deerington, [ she tells him, as if that explains everything. ] New Sleepers are installed at the beginning of every month.

a is for are u ready for pain

[bolstafir]

[It's a surreal moment, when Qrow sees that face again. At first, he's certain he's mistaken; he follows the man as he wanders, shambling forward like a man possessed just to get a better look at him. Qrow doesn't call out, voice suddenly gone from his throat entirely as he just ... walks. It'd be easier to fly, but he forgets he can in these moments, too fixated on trying to get a look at his face.

At some point, his effort is rewarded as Ozpin stops, marveling at some strange aspect of Deerington or another, and Qrow stares no more subtly at the man, suddenly unsure he's not hallucinating.

For a moment, there's a naked vulnerability in his expression, a soul-deep grief for this man who was everything to him, once upon a time. No matter how angry he is, this is still the man who saved his life, more literally than he'll ever know. This is the man that gave him a reason to get out of bed every day for twenty years, especially in the darkest days when he felt like his existence was nothing but a drain on everything he cared about. He still had a role to fulfill, then, something he could do that mattered.

Except it didn't, in the end. None of it mattered. He was nothing but another tin soldier, fodder for the cannons in a war that had no end. He was worthy to lay his life down for the cause, but he wasn't worthy of trust. What was twenty years to a man who couldn't die, after all?

That wounded expression of Qrow's turns to a scowl as he realizes something, then.]

Ugh, this again? What the hell is this damn place's obsession with ghosts?

[He wrenches his gaze away from the vision, teeth grit and fists clenched ... but he can't bring himself to walk away from it, either. Because he's been festering in all of his pain, his betrayal, his fear -- for so long, and he couldn't unburden himself on Ruby or Yang or Oscar -- and Clover didn't know the truth about Salem. That was Ruby's decision in Atlas, and he respected it. He's used to bearing burdens on his own, managing the risks that come with his existence and keeping just the right amount of distance to keep his loved ones safe. But it turns out coping with your feelings is a lot more complicated when you choose to throw away the crutch you've been leaning on for over a decade, and he's been especially raw since Ruby's death.]

.....Brothers, you're such an asshole, you know that? Do you have any idea what we've been through since you left? You know we had to fight the entire damn Atlas military to get your stupid relic to safety? You know how many times we almost died?

[His entire frame shakes from the weight of everything he's been trying to hold inside for months, and he looks less a hardened, veteran huntsman in this moment and more the lonely child Ozpin took under his wing, all those years ago.]

I gave my whole life to you! I dragged Ruby into this, because of you! Ruby, after everything we went through with Summer! There hasn't been a body in that grave for--for over a decade, and you didn't ever think I deserved to know what I was really fighting? What I was ready to die for?

[He goes eerily silent, then...that rage seeming to burn itself out as quickly as it ignited and leaving him spent. His head hangs, eyes shadowed with misery.]

Did you ever really care about any of us? ...I guess I'll never know now.

ALWAYS

[clocktowers]

[ He does not realize he's being watched until he hears that rough voice, and Ozpin's breath catches. As Qrow speaks, he turns slowly to see the man, feeling abruptly defenseless without his cane in his hand. Without anything to lean on.

You know how many times we almost died? He does. He was watching. When he retreats deeply enough, it all goes hazy and distant, as though everything is truly happening to someone else— he can bury himself so far away that it almost stops mattering. But he was, in a sense, still watching. He still knows.

Qrow shakes and swears and is so painfully raw before him that it hurts to see, and Oz is breathless in the face of it, at a loss for what to say. I gave my whole life to you— and that is true; Qrow was as loyal to him as anyone he'd had when he was king, or when he was family. Qrow was unquestionably his. To see that shattered...

The loss hurts so desperately he wants to go away, again. He wants to retreat to that quiet, faraway corner of a place that doesn't quite exist, in the mind of a boy still separate enough to shelter behind. He wants to hide.

There is nowhere to hide, here. ]

Of course I cared.

[ He does not quite meet Qrow's eyes. He cannot. He hides behind his glasses, behind the hair that falls messy in his eyes, behind the distance between them in this strange street.

Silence hangs for a moment, and then he goes on, because there is nothing else he can do. ]

You must understand— when I first learned the truth about Salem... it took lifetimes to come to terms with what I was facing. What we are facing. It is no easy task to acknowledge that the war you are fighting... does not have an end in sight.

[ He takes a careful breath, and does look at Qrow, then. There is more vulnerability in his eyes than Qrow has ever seen in this face. But it is not the shattered expression of that boy crouched in the snow; he has found solid ground again. He has gathered all his fragile scraps of conviction. ]

But that does not make it pointless. The lives we are saving are very real. The good you've done has real value to those people. And to me.

I— [ And here he falters, for all that he'd spoken so eloquently in the solitude of his-and-Oscar's mind. ] I am sorry I left as I did.

[ He had been so afraid of this. Of feeling this. ]

cw: alcoholism reference

[bolstafir]

[Qrow visibly startles when the other man answers him back. He'd expected to yell into an unanswering void, then take out the rest of his feelings on a monster or two and go home. Spend some time with the girls, fall asleep in Clover's arms pretending all the things they couldn't talk about with each other didn't exist.

But Ozpin doesn't hover up above; for once, his two feet are firmly planted on the ground, standing without support. Qrow takes half a step back, a half-uttered sound of surprise squeaking through his throat as his eyes stare wide, deer in headlights--or perhaps a crow.

He's really here, isn't he. After leaving everyone to pick up his pieces, here he is again. Against his own will, quite possibly, and quite frankly somewhat miraculously. Not from a time before the Fall of Beacon, that much becomes clear immediately, but then...how? Did Sodder resurrect this body like it did Ruby's? Why was he separated from Oscar's?

But every one of these questions die on his tongue before he can think to utter them, in the face of Ozpin continuing to speak. The good you've done has real value to those people. And to me. It burns like hellfire in his chest, worse even than the pain of Tyrian's poison when he was dying on the way to Mistral. He feels like he wants to scream, to break things....to drink, just to dull the agony. Hearing him talk like this floods him with the emotions he'd felt when he was seventeen and adrift, a cursed child of misfortune who had nothing to offer but a talent at fighting, turned against the defenseless. Ozpin had a way of making people believe they could become the best versions of themselves, that they could make the world a better place if they just tried.

All Qrow ever, ever wanted was to belong. To matter. Ozpin gave him that, smashed it into a million pieces, and now hands him the shattered pieces in a mosaic of what could still be, as if he really believes that. As if it's not just another beautiful lie.

He should walk away. He should tell Oz he doesn't need him anymore, that he never wants to see his face again for the rest of his life.

He wants to. But it's a lie too, and his traitorous throat won't speak it. It's too late to sew back up the pieces of his heart he just ripped out for this man who isn't an apparition after all, so he digs his talons in and starts on the rest. Maybe if all this tainted blood is finally purged, he can try to find something like peace.]

No, I don't understand, Ozpin.

[Not Oz. He holds back that affectionate nickname, unwilling even as he bares his soul to let him have the pieces.]

I...wasn't a good person, when you met me. I get you needed time, to make sure I could be trusted. That I was yours. But--

[And here, he wavers, as though unsure he's ready to do this after all. There's no going back, though. The Rubicon, as it were, is crossed, here.]

...But wasn't it enough, when I parted ways with my own sister for you? Wasn't it enough after we lost Summer, and I still went out on your front lines, to be your eyes and ears? Wasn't it enough--

[This time, his voice really does crack. A drip of moisture lands on Ozpin's shoe.]

Wasn't it enough when Tai decided he was done, and it was just me left of our team? Would it ever have been enough?

[Before he'd met Ozpin, he'd had nothing to give except his ability to hurt people. Ozpin gave him a purpose, a reason to live more than simply survive, as it was in the tribe.

In return, Qrow gave him his life and his soul and anything else he could carve out of himself for the dream and the desperate hope that he could somehow actually leave the world a better place than he entered it, cursed harbinger of misfortune or otherwise. That he could live up to the faith Ozpin put in him.

He has nothing left to give, now. When he speaks again, his voice is soft. The anger and bitterness leeched out into something tired, drained of energy to his very bones.]

You didn't hide it to protect me. Not really. You did it to protect yourself, because you thought I wouldn't be yours anymore, if I knew.

[. . .]

That's the real funny thing, Ozpin. You would've been wrong. If you'd ever trusted me enough to give me a real choice.

(b) arrival, Quiet Place monsters.

[51stcenturyjack]

From somewhere nearby, brassy music alternating with an intricate clarinet solo blares out. It comes closer, perhaps getting the attention of the monster.

"Hey! Hey, ugly! dig these tunes and go pick on someone yer own size!" a man yells, half-drowned out by the music, which continues getting louder, as if whatever's playing it has drawn closer...

[clocktowers]

The two monsters stop their circling and look up, startled. As the blaring music draws closer, they turn away from Oz and step in the direction of the disturbance, attention thoroughly caught. Oz turns to see what exactly is coming towards him from where he stands, backed up against a bare wall on some unfortunate Deerington sidestreet.

[51stcenturyjack]

A moment or two, with the music getting even louder before there's a pause and the song shifts to a peppier number starting with a drum solo. A tall figure in a long coat with something that might be a speaker strapped to his back, holding a boom box above his head, a cable connecting it to the speaker, while another cable hooks the speaker to a pair of car batteries strapped on either of his hips like saddle bags. A pair of orange plastic ear-protectors cover the tall guy's ears as he continues to yell at the monsters, grinning like a happy troll.

"Yah wanna chew on something? Chew on these swingin' tunes!"

dollhouse

[easilyswayed]

[ A pale woman looms several feet behind the wizard.

The porcelain has begun to creep onto Salem’s upper cheeks, giving her veins the appearance of fissures in the material. Her fingertips and nails are similarly hardened. Her expression, however, is the stoniest of all.

She hates being here. She hates being trapped, again, by a selfish god. This dollhouse is but another trap. Ozma has asked her if she’s ever seen anything like it before, and the question makes her want to rage. Of course she has. She has seen many towers, each more magical and divine than the last.

She hates Ozma, most of all, for not understanding how important freedom is. For not knowing what it’s like to lose it. There is no freedom in this place, and Ozma does not care, because he has never needed to.

She considers trying to kill him then, but that isn’t wise, not when his back is turned, not when her magic is in such a state. Besides, she wants him to look at her. She wants him to fear, and to hate. She wants Ozma to know who is about to kill him.

So Salem speaks, in a high, clear tone: ]

I have.

[clocktowers]

[ That voice.

He whirls so fast he staggers with it, jolting back a step, reflexive as a spooked horse. The little gasp that comes from him sounds as though he's been struck; his eyes have gone very wide. He has the Long Memory raised at once, as though that will protect him.

He didn't— he— how can she be here? Is it really her, or only some trick of the place? Every detail is precise and convincing; he could not have invented the glossy sheen of her skin, which now matches his own brittle hands. In this moment of ringing shock, he feels as cold and empty as a porcelain doll.

If she wants fear, she will find it in his face, in this breathless moment before he can control his expression. Even as he steadies out, loosens his panicked grip on his weapon, it's clear in every line of him. His tone is meant to come level and guarded, but it doesn't, really. His voice nearly breaks on the word. ]

Salem.

[easilyswayed]

[ The whole scene is pathetic. Ozma fears her, and that is good, but whatever pleasure Salem might take from it is twisted up into hate. She wants to wipe that frightened look off his face. She wants to destroy, it, destroy him. She wants so much, all the time, and she knows she will never be free of the wanting, and she hates that too.

Salem will not give Ozma the respect of addressing him by name. Besides, all his names are lies. Instead, Salem strides towards him, and if Ozma does not make a move to strike, Salem will slowly pinch the pinky on the hand not clutching that stupid cane. She will apply nearly enough force, but not quite enough, to shatter that pinky. It is a threat. She will taunt him, before killing him.

She is, of course, not wasting time because she is afraid of being alone in this strange dream. Salem cannot fear, not really. She only destroys. ]

Did you really think you would be free, here?